The Man in the Green Cap
by Joanne Novak
Summary: Based off of a line in 8x06. When Garth first met Bobby Singer, it wasn't exactly during the best situation. Or, how Garth's first encounter with the supernatural changed his life forever. Or, how an older man in a green baseball cap managed to save his life, leaving a bit of tragedy in his wake. Or, how family really doesn't end with blood. Oneshot.


_**A/N: Holy crap, another Supernatural fanfiction! Just... wow. Even I wasn't expecting this. Anyway, this was inspired by that literally perfect scene in Southern Comfort (8x06) when Garth was telling Dean that "Bobby belonged to [everyone]." I don't know, it got me thinking: How **_did _**Garth meet Bobby? So, I guess this is slightly AU, in the sense that Garth's encounter with the Tooth Fairy was not his first encounter with the supernatural. Plus, I'm making up a backstory. (Oh, I suppose I should mention that I'm a sucker for traumatic backstories. Ask anyone.) :)  
**_

_**Whatever, I'll stop rambling now. I hope you like the story - please, please let me know what you think in the form of a review. Reviews just make me very happy. :)**_

_**(Oh! Sorry, P.S: Garth is about sixteen, seventeen here. Even though he's called 'kid' a few times, he's actually in his mid-to-late teens.)  
**_

* * *

"No, no, no… Oh, God, please, no…"

Books were flying off of their shelves and falling to the floor by his feet as he sat, leaning against the wall, with his knees drawn to his chest and his arms wrapped around his shins. Tears ran freely down his face as he tried his best to keep quiet, even though he was sure the sound of his heart pounding against his ribs would give him away anyway.

He was trying his best to remain calm – he really was. The walls were still shaking, though, with every _pop_ and _bang_ and _crack_ that echoed through the house, and the image of his mother lying downstairs kept flashing behind his eyelids, so all he could really _do_ was panic and try to keep his muffled sobs as quiet as possible, his breath catching in his throat with every breath.

"No, please – please let this all just be a dream," he whispered, pressing his head against his knees. He knew it wasn't a dream, though. Rather, it was a nightmare, somehow brought to life. The blood, the gunshots, the way his father stood with his limbs bent in the wrong directions – they were all too real.

The feeling in his gut – that was real, too. The heavy, all-consuming dread in the pit of his stomach was growing, getting darker and denser every time he closed his eyes and saw the blood rushing from his mother's throat, the gun in his father's hands that was eventually turned on him and fired twice.

Being such a beanpole, he figured, was probably the only thing in his favor in this situation. The bullets had flown right by him as he rushed through his house, looking for somewhere to hide, hoping he wouldn't be found. Now all he had to do was stay where he was, squished between two bookshelves in his parents' old study, and hope that, by some miracle, this nightmare would end.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are!" his father's voice boomed up the stairs, followed by a few gunshots to nearby walls. "Come on, you little freak, you know how this is going to end. Why waste my time?"

Another soft sob broke through his throat. That wasn't his father; it couldn't be. His father wouldn't be doing this. His father wouldn't have killed his mother. His father wouldn't have shot at him, and his father would never say those things. His father was a good man, which was why he couldn't make sense of any of this.

The sight of a gun in his father's hands just looked so unnatural. His father, who had never even been hunting before, pointing a gun at his mother, laughing quietly as he pulled the trigger…

And all he did was stand and _stare_, wide-eyed and frozen. And then he _ran. _He stood by and _watched his mother die_, and then he _ran away_.

He could almost feel the shame bubbling inside him, almost as heavy as his dread and fear. He was right _there_ when his father was pointing the gun; he should have done _something_. He could have saved her, but he didn't.

Now this was his punishment. He was going to die, and all of the tears, the broken sobs, the prayers to a God he wasn't sure existed; they weren't going to help him. It was all hopeless, and the clock was counting down with every _bang_ of his father's heavy boots stomping up the stairs, closer to his hiding spot.

He'd given up on trying to be quiet, now, because he knew his father knew where he was. So he let the sobs and the tears and everything out as he heard his father banging on the door.

"No, no, no, no…" he cried, as loud as he needed to be.

A gunshot went off nearby, blowing the doorknob off the door and making his ears ring. The first thing he saw was an old brass knob rolling across the hardwood floor, and then his father walking in after it, gun in hand, disgusting smile on his face.

Call it that "fight or flight" instinct, if you will, but he found himself trying to run again. He didn't realize he was up off the floor, though, until he was just outside the doorway, just at the top of the stairs, and his father reached out to grab the hood of his jacket. This resulted in his being back on the floor, the wind knocked out of him, as he stared into the barrel of the gun, again.

"No," his voice cracked as he screwed his eyes shut. "Please."

"Sorry, kid," his father said, cocking the gun. "But it's almost over now. Just let me finish, will you?"

There was a too-long stretch of silence, and then there was a loud _bang_ and a _crack_.

He gasped at the sound, thinking for sure he was dead because that _had_ to be the gun making the sound. Apparently it wasn't, though, because he opened his eyes again to find that he was still in his house, staring up at his father, who was staring at the front door at the bottom of the stairs; the front door that had apparently been kicked open.

He heard the all-too-familiar sound of another gun being cocked, and when the shot went off and he saw a bullet rip through his father's chest, he took his opportunity to scramble up off the floor and run down the stairs.

He only made it halfway down before he was pushed up against the wall, pinned by his neck.

His eyes widened as he found himself staring right at his father again. He glanced down at the bullet hole in his father's chest, noted the blood dripping to the floor, and was suddenly more scared, confused, panicked than he'd ever been before. His father should be _dead_; not standing on the stairs, pinning his son by his neck, holding his pistol to his son's head.

He glanced down at the doorway. There stood a large man, who looked about forty years old, wearing an old green baseball cap. He was cocking his rifle again, taking aim at the man on the stairs.

The father chuckled softly.

"That's cute," he said. "Really. I'm impressed. But, if you're who I think you are, you know that that piece-of-shit gun of yours isn't going to do anything."

The man at the door only narrowed his eyes and kept the gun trained on the other adult in the room.

The father shrugged his shoulders.

"You do look determined, though. So I'll give you a challenge, here, okay?"

His father's gun stayed pressed to his temple as his position was shifted; now, instead of his father standing in between him and the man with the baseball cap, he was standing in between them. He was reduced to a human shield.

_Don't shoot. Please, please don't shoot._

His father continued, "So here's the plan, okay? You have one try to make a shot. Around the kid, through him, I don't really care. But when your bullets don't work, mine will. See? I still win."

The corner of the other man's lips twitched upward.

"Oh, I don't know about that. I'm a pretty decent shot."

_Please, no. Please._

The shot rang out, and before he could blink, he was free from his father's grip and flying down the stairs. He moved behind the other man, deciding not to run out of the house yet, and looked back up at his father, who was suddenly bent over and crying out, his gun having dropped to the floor.

"You didn't think all of my bullets were just regular steel, did you?" the man asked, stepping backwards toward the door, nudging the teenager behind him so he would do the same thing. "Come on, I'm a bit brighter than that. Can't exactly shoot a demon without salt rounds."

The father looked up again, eyes suddenly turning completely black, which earned a shocked gasp from the doorway. His smile was dripping with blood, and he began to chuckle.

"Oh, you, my friend… consider yourself dead."

The other man turned around, suddenly, gently pushing the teenage boy out of the house.

"Come on, get onto the lawn," the man said, following suit.

The two jumped down off the porch and found themselves safely on the grass. With his heart still knocking uneasily in his chest, the younger of the two looked back up at the house to see his father, stuck just outside the doorway, hands balled into fists, face red with anger.

"Damn you, Singer!" his father was yelling. "Damn you to Hell!"

The man just walked back up the steps, stopping just outside a bright red circle that outlined a large star and several other unknown symbols.

"Actually," he said, taking a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolding it. "I think it's the other way around."

Fifty Latin words later, the young man was racing back up the stairs, with a fresh wave of tears streaming down his face, as he watched his father's head shoot back and a long stream of black smoke disappear into the air.

"Dad!" he screamed, falling to his knees in between his bleeding, gasping father and the man with the baseball cap. "Dad!"

His father, whose chest was leaking onto the front porch, whose eyes looked flat and hollow, took in a shuddering breath.

"I'm so… sorry," he whispered, tears dripping down his cheeks. "I didn't… mean it. It… wasn't me…"

"I know, Dad," the boy replied, trying his best to keep from sobbing, and ultimately failing when his father's lips twitched slightly and his chest slowly stopped rising and falling.

He still wasn't entirely sure what had happened because, still, nothing seemed _real_. He'd just lost both of his parents in less than two hours, and everything was suddenly just _too much_, so all he could think to do was let his head fall onto his father's chest and break down, his grief denser and darker than anything he'd ever felt before.

He stayed like that for a few minutes, until he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. He looked up at the sad eyes of the man with the green cap.

"I'm sorry," the man said. "I really am."

All he could answer with was another broken whimper.

The man lowered himself to his knees and pulled the kid into a tight hug, which was readily returned.

Another few minutes passed, just like that, with the teenager mourning the loss of his parents while the older man held him close, repeating, "I'm so sorry."

Eventually, the sobs quieted and the boy found he could breathe again. He slowly pulled himself out of the hug, albeit reluctantly, and faced the other man.

"He called you 'Singer.' That your name?" he asked.

A nod. "Yeah. Yeah, but you can just call me 'Bobby.' And how about you?"

"Garth Fitzgerald IV."

"Okay… Garth," Bobby repeated, nodding his head.

A few seconds passed before Garth spoke again.

"Before… after you shot the gun," he began, staring at the blood that was suddenly all over his hands, "you said something about… about not being able to kill a demon without salt rounds."

Bobby nodded, and Garth continued.

"So… are you saying that my _dad_ was…?"

"Possessed," Bobby filled in the blank, nodding again. "Yeah. Damn thing used your dad as a freakin' meat suit and was trying to kill you all, just for the hell of it, because that's what they do…"

"And you… you hunt those things? You kill them?" Garth asked, slightly astonished.

"Well, define kill. It's more like sending them back to Hell. They don't exactly die."

Garth nodded, slowly beginning to understand what had just happened. There was only one more question he had; so, staring down at the bullet hole in his father's chest, he tried asking it.

"Was there… do you think there was… do you think you could have sent the demon back without… without shooting my dad?"

He shrunk back, minutely, as if he were afraid of Bobby's answer. But Bobby just bit his lower lip and lowered his eyes.

"It depends. Yes, eventually, I guess I could've exorcised him without shooting; but that would mean letting him kill you first. I wasn't going to let that happen, so… I took the shot."

Bobby looked back up at Garth, with only a few unshed tears in his eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Garth," he said again, his voice breaking only slightly. "If I'd gotten here sooner, I could've… you know…"

Bobby took another pause, biting down on his lip a little harder before continuing.

"If it… if it means anything, I… I know how you feel."

That was all he said about that matter, opting not to clarify. He just didn't feel like it.

Garth nodded again, not exactly surprised. It made perfect sense.

"I understand," Garth said after a few moments of thinking. "I understand why you had to do it. And, if it means anything back, I wish you didn't know how I feel…"

His voice broke as he finished, "Because it's a terrible feeling."

Tears were slipping down his cheeks again, so Bobby pulled him back into another hug just as he began to sob again.

Softly, he spoke in the boy's ear.

"Right back at you, Garth."

A few more minutes passed, just like that, and when Garth pulled away from Bobby's arms, he had an idea. More of a plan, really, because it just seemed like the only option now.

Looking Bobby right in the eyes, he said, "Bobby, I want to help you hunt demons."

Bobby widened his eyes and leaned forward, thinking he had to have heard the kid wrong.

"Excuse me?" he asked. "You want to…?"

Garth nodded his head as fast as he could. "I want to help you hunt demons. If it's okay with you, I mean."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Garth! Slow down. I don't think you know what you're suggesting, here…"

Bobby began to shake his head, shocked at the determination in the teenager's voice. After a demon-attack as traumatic as this one, most people would run _away _from this sort of thing, take the time to grieve, or maybe even get some psychiatric help. But here this kid was, practically begging to run _towards_ the life. Knowing _the life_ inside and out, however, Bobby had to wonder if it was wise to let the kid in.

"I'm suggesting," Garth replied, "that I help you get rid of these things. I'm suggesting that I get to help send these things back to Hell, and I'm suggesting helping people."

Garth took a pause, but wasn't just finished yet. He bit down on his bottom lip.

"I'm suggesting… I'm suggesting making sure this sort of thing doesn't happen again. Bobby, I really want to do this. I think I _need_ to do this."

"Garth, I understand that. I do, trust me. But this life? I don't think you understand what you'd be getting yourself into…"

"Then explain it to me. Please," he added.

Bobby was shaking his head, but even he knew that he wouldn't be able to stop the kid. That was the way it worked, wasn't it? Once you know what's out there, once you realize you can help stop some of it, there's nothing that can stop you from going; not even an over-experienced hunter with a green baseball cap.

* * *

Eventually, after the events at the Fitzgerald home were well in the past, the two were finally able to work out a compromise. Bobby would teach the kid everything he knew about hunting, even let him tag along on a few hunts, but it was all part-time. The rest of the time, Garth would attend the University of Sioux Falls, at least until he completed his first four years. Then, if he really wanted to, he could join the life completely; or he could try to live a normal life. It was completely up to him.

Until then, he called the Singer residence home, commuting back and forth to his classes, using an old guestroom in the back of the house. During his time there, he made sure to keep pictures of his parents wherever he could fit the frames; on the nightstand, the dresser, the shelves. He even kept a small box of things that reminded him of them – his mother's favorite pair of earrings, his father's class ring, and even the old sock puppet that his mother had made for him in the second grade.

After five years, though, the pictures came down. The box was packed away, in a duffel bag that always stayed in his truck, and soon, Garth was out on his own, taking the supernatural world by storm.

Bobby's house never stopped being home to him, though. For the rest of Bobby's life, he'd be receiving countless phone calls from the kid, telling him how his latest case had gone, wondering what he was up to.

And Garth never forgot to visit. Ever. He'd stop by a few times a year, during holidays or just to visit, occasionally even asking for help on a hunt.

Bobby knew deep down that the kid really didn't need his help on some of those hunts, although he'd never say it to Garth's face. Regardless, he found that he liked having Garth around, even if it was only a few times a year.

Sentiment is hard to explain, really. It's often better shown than spoken.

That's why, after working their first official hunt together after Garth moved out, Bobby decided not to go back for the worn green baseball cap that he may or may not have purposefully left in Garth's truck.

* * *

_**A/N: I'm not even kidding, this took me forever. Like, it's one in the morning right now, and I just really wanted to finish this. So, please let me know if there are any major issues that need fixing. Or minor issues. Or any issues at all that I can fix, because I know there are issues here.**_

_**Can I get a critique, anyone?  
**_

_**Haha, anyway, thanks for reading. Hope you liked it. :)  
**_


End file.
